


In This Kingdom by the Sea

by exquisitefrogprince



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Axel (Kingdom Hearts), Assassination Attempt(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Isa and ienzo are siblings, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Ienzo (Kingdom Hearts), Prince Isa (Kingdom hearts)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisitefrogprince/pseuds/exquisitefrogprince
Summary: Can love bloom from hate in a world of blood and brutality, glossed over neatly with the shining veneer of progress and regalia?When an assassin is charged with taking the life of the crown prince of one of the most notoriously heinous kingdoms, he finds out there is a good deal more to the story than he ever knew, and that the prince is a lot more than a typical mark.What will either of them do when they find out that the dark underbelly of the kingdom runs far deeper and more heinous than either of them knew, and are forcibly thrown into each other's lives -- whether they like it or not?
Relationships: Axel/Saïx (Kingdom Hearts), Ienzo & Isa (Kingdom Hearts), Isa & Lea & Roxas & Xion (Kingdom Hearts), Isa/Lea (Kingdom Hearts), Lea & Roxas & Xion (Kingdom Hearts), Lea & Roxas (Kingdom Hearts), Lea & Xion (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 38





	1. Breath of Fire

Beauty hid brutality exceptionally well. The more complicated, swirling, and captivating a pattern, the easier it hid bloodstains and dirt. Perfume, rich and sickeningly sweet over the smell of bile and shit, was common in these streets. Something had to hide the suffering, and what better way to cover the kingdom’s grimy underbelly than by covering it with a pretty rug? Flowers, deceptively sweet-smelling, growing from fertilizer strewn with blood and bone. Pretty women, moving through the market at leisure and dancing at balls in a dazzling array of swirling skirts, hiding crushed rib cages and shoes full of blood. 

That was just the way of things. It always had been, at least here in the fair kingdom of Bastion. Famous for its luxury, prestige, and dignity, and air filled with the scent of flowers. Flowers, grown tall and strong with the blood of those abandoned by the privileged few who upheld the caste. 

Because Bastion, beautiful as it was, was only such to those lucky enough to live in the center. Money brought pretty things to cover the gore, sickness, and threats of war -- pretty silver shillings across a rotting foundation -- and if someone didn’t have the money for the beauty? 

They were left in the grime to rot. 

Really, this had been a long time coming. If anyone in this damned kingdom had had a lick of sense, they’d have hired an assassin to take down one of their shirty monarchs a long time before, but, hey -- who was Axel to judge? At least they’d finally gotten their wits about them and called in the best of the best. His only qualm was that the order he’d been handed by the head of his guild hadn’t been for the king himself, but one of the pretentious princes. Ah, well. It was better than nothing, right? 

Royal blood was Royal blood. 

It had almost been fun, actually, to make his way into the castle. Fun, and just a bit too easy. By all accounts, nothing that Axel had done should have actually worked, but here he was, all the way up in the tower that held the bedroom of the crown prince he’d come to murder. Well, murder was a strong word . . . more like “graciously remove from life.” 

The assassin’s light, leather boots were quiet upon the winding stone staircase, and it was with ease that he avoided stepping into the dim light shed by any of the torches held in the sconces of the walls. The flickering red flames illuminated a narrow face, sharp features still faintly painted with the traces of stylistic makeup he’d used to perform. Crazy, really, how a bit of distraction and glitz could win trust so easily. A little sleight of hand, a wink and a smile. . . 

And they’d let you get away with murder. 

All he’d had to do was set up a show in the courtyard in the center of the kingdom. The movements were second nature, now, and even the simplest of motions were captivating to the crowd that had gathered around him. _Dragon man,_ they’d gasped, _fire eater,_ and Axel had grinned while twirling the flaming, multi-pronged fans within his hands. Faster and faster, along with the beat a nearby minstrel, until he’d put the burning ends -- eight on each metal fan -- out with his own mouth. The only thing that had rivaled the awe expressed by the crowd was that shown when he took a swig of the bottle by his feet, raised the fans to his lips and breathed a column of flame into the air in a whirlwhild of heat and smoke. 

_Sorcerer,_ they’d whispered, _Fire breather._

“Nah, just an entertainer,” he’d winked. “From the east.” 

It was good cover, if nothing else, and it had quickly gained him a private audience with the king. His own little performance. . . A fiery snake in the grass, welcomed directly into his innermost sanctum. It would have been so very easy for Axel to have let a blade fly from one of his fans, piercing directly through the bastard’s skull and pinning it to the gilded throne behind him . . . 

Pretty pattern, all soaked through with blood. Scarlet on gold. How pretty. 

But the king wasn’t the one that Axel had been sent to kill and, as much as he’d have liked to gut the bloated and smug looking man, Axel didn’t do jack shit for free. So the king would leave his personal show with hedonistic head intact, and Axel would steal away to the side of the room as the watching crowd of important figures dispersed -- any number of which could find themselves slotted next as a target of his blade -- to melt into the shadows. 

As inconspicuous in moments as he had been charismatic and bright during his moments of performance, he’d made his way to the tower, following a map already memorized that had been charted by another of his guild. Up the tower, flame-red hair hidden under the hood of his cloak and feet quiet on the steps, in search of his target. A target unfortunately absent from his performance, perhaps at some sort of meeting, or this all would have been a good deal easier. 

No matter. Wherever the prince was, he’d have to return to chambers at some point. Sooner or later, everyone grew weary and had to lay down their head to sleep, and it was in those seconds of tiredness and lowered guard that Axel struck. 

The thought caused his feet to pad quicker up the stairs, adrenaline thrumming through his blood and making him feel _alive_ the more he thought about how very soon his target wouldn’t be. As nice as easy jobs were, there was something satisfying in the challenge. It was rare he had a job this big -- well, not _that rare,_ but rare enough to make things interesting. 

A grin stole across his features, teeth glinting in the near darkness of the stairs, before his foot finally made contact with the top of the incline and he made his way inconspicuously down the hall. A few guards were posted -- in predictable locations, as always -- and Axel easily avoided them. Their ranks were sparse, leaving far too many holes -- after all, what point was there in guarding the quarters of noblemen who weren’t there? Therein was where the vast majority of guards made their mistakes, and in that many targets met their end. 

By the time the guards had truly begun patrolling, posted neatly by the prince’s door, death would have already found its way inside. And the poor guards wouldn’t know until morning bade them to check on a prince they’d find bloody and burned, the victim of a tragic accident. 

In no time at all, he’d reached the gilded wood of a door that had to be that of the crown prince. Even if Axel hadn’t had a map with the location clearly marked tucked away within the depths of his cloak, it would have been obvious. Only a prince would have had a door painted so finely, with what appeared to be a solid gold door handle and accents. It was odd that Axel had definitely seen fancier . . . but still unmistakably that of a prince. 

“Not long now, your highness,” he drawled to himself as he slid his lockpicks easily out of the band on his wrist and tucked one into his teeth. Kneeling on the ground, alert for signs of anyone who might come by -- of course, they didn’t -- it took only minutes to pick the lock and make his way inside the room. 

“ . . . Shit.” 

For a moment, he wondered if he’d found the wrong place. This certainly didn’t _look_ like the chambers of a prince. . .the furniture was nice enough, but Axel was used to seeing nicer. The bed, while neatly made, only had simple curtains and for once wasn’t covered with enough pillows to smother a man without Lea having to do any work. Granted, it was still nicer than anything that the assassin had personally owned, all decorated with silks and fine porcelain treasures, but for the big shot that this prince was supposed to be, Axel had really expected more. 

“Oh, well . . . “ he sighed, then tucked his lock picks back into their leather harness upon his wrist and went to work after quietly shutting the door behind him. Setup for the show he planned to put on would take a bit of effort but, hey, it was what the prince deserved. Big names deserved a big death, after all, and Axel wanted to make sure that everyone knew exactly who was responsible for taking down the crown prince of one of the most parasitic kingdoms on this side of the world. 

Humming to himself, the assassin reached towards his belt and removed a bottle of the same fluid he’d used in his performance to stoke his fire. Now, it would be used for a much different performance, and one all the more brilliant. Methodically and practiced, he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and began to drizzle the accelerant inside over the carpet, right around the edges and leading towards the bed. Next was to soak the mattress, the underside, of course, where the prince wouldn’t feel when he laid down -- if he made it to the laying down part at all, that is. Odds were likely that Axel would strike quicker, but the bed really was the best place to showcase a body. 

Yes. . . A quick dagger to the throat, heart, or stomach, far too quick for the victim to retaliate with so much as a scream, and the prince’s life would be cut off, his last sight in the world a pair of emerald green eyes, still lined with black. A bit of effort would see the prince’s body in the bed, where it would be set ablaze in Axel’s trademark display. Then he could finally take off and have a bit of time to himself, for once, and catch up on his rest.

All in a day’s work. 

Once the bottle had been emptied, he tucked it back into his belt and removed its twin, beginning to work on soaking the bed curtains. The prince wasn’t due back into his room for another few hours, at least going by the intel that Axel had collected, which gave him just enough time to finish setting up and then take a load off on one of the fancy cushions that lay around the room. 

It was a solid plan, and a pleasant one, and one that would have suited Axel just fine. Unfortunately, it was a plan that was interrupted by the bone-chilling sound of a key in a lock -- a lock that had only recently been redone. 

_”Shit --”_ Axel muttered, looking quickly towards the door as his breath stilled in mild panic. It wasn’t his first time being walked in on, but it was certainly unexpected . . . the prince had back to back meetings today, right? There was just enough time in between to socialize and drift off to the next -- what noble in their right mind would have come back to the bedroom? Unless it was a servant come to clean, but that would have gone against the schedule they’d gotten via their intelligence expert . . . 

Of course, “expert” was a relatively flexible term, and Axel gritted his teeth while cursing the man under his breath as he quickly tucked the still mostly full vial away and shoved it into his belt. Glancing around the room, he zeroed in on a hiding place -- he’d take cover and wait for the servant to leave and, on the off chance that this was the prince returned early from his meeting . . . 

Well, Axel knew how to think on his feet. 

Moving quickly and effortlessly, he dropped to the ground and rolled beneath the bed, only briefly becoming snagged on the carpet due to the metal fans strapped to his back. In a fluid motion, he pulled one of several hidden daggers from his thigh and then fell silent and still, eyes locked upon the underside of the door as it began to creak open. Breath still and silent, form melting into the shadows . . . he waited. 

It wasn’t the dirty, worn boots of a servant that made their way through the opening of the door, but fine polished black that could only belong to royalty. 

Axel smiled. 

_Gotcha, princey boy._

It was only a matter of time, now. The heavy wooden door creaked shut once more, and Axel knew that no one would dare to enter without the prince’s permission. It was just them alone, now . . . and that was very good for the assassin. He’d just watch those booted feet move, stopping by a vanity and fiddling with something that lightly tinkled -- jewelry, perhaps, or light armor. It didn’t matter. Nothing much would matter for the prince very soon. He’d let him settle in a little, then when the moment was right . . . 

Any second now . . . 

Axel would strike. Grip tightening on the knife, he tensed as he watched the feet turn towards the bed, ready to emerge and finish his target off as quickly and neatly as possible. It was time for the prince to -- 

“You can come out. I won't run. I've no time or patience for dramatics."

The assassin froze. 

_Shit._


	2. Stare of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince makes a choice, and an assassin makes a mistake.

It had been a long day. Then again, every day was long. A short day would have been merciful, perhaps, for the prince’s mental health, but he’d never allow himself to hope. After all, a short day equaled less time with which to act, and though his was often spent in tedium, time was something incredibly precious -- a valuable resource that prince Isa, crown prince to the kingdom of Bastion, couldn’t afford to waste. 

The prince’s day had been spent so far, as it often was, in matters of trade with the nearby kingdom of Traverse. Also as always -- what was life, but an endless chain of repetitive, monotonous torture -- his father had proven to be exceptionally useless. Nay, more than useless, the old bastard was outright counterproductive -- if he couldn’t have production and a tangible reward in front of him the very moment that he spoke, or put a practice into place, he simply wasn’t interested. Far from it to be possible for him to consider a thought-out plan for the beneficence of the kingdom. 

Far from it to be possible for him to consider the welfare of the kingdom as a whole _at all._ It seemed that Isa was the only one in such meetings who actually gave a damn about anyone who existed beyond the castle walls, and he likely was. Not that he could say such things in the meetings without incurring his father’s wrath and having his already limited power constricted. . .  
  
It was a quiet, tiring existence, and Isa had needed a break. One could hardly blame him for using one of his blessedly few quarter hours of free time to retire to his chambers as opposed to continuing to rub elbows with the currish nobles and high ranking members of the court.  
As he ascended the stone staircase that led to his chambers, he found his thoughts turning, not for the first time, to the inevitable but often intangible future of his ascending to the throne. The king’s health was already failing, and he took rather poor care of himself, which with any luck would see Isa in a seat of power within a few years if he was lucky. It was only a matter of time . . . a matter of playing long games and holding on until he could claim that power for himself. Only a matter of time. 

Precious, dangerous time.  
  
He arrived upon the landing still deep in thought, hands unclenching from the fabric of his robes and allowing them to once more trail along the floor. There, the quiet solitude of his chambers, now within reach . . . the only place that Isa could come even remotely close to relaxing . . .  
  
Except that he couldn’t -- and he didn’t. For, near immediately, as soon as his hand fell upon the doorknob, he felt his hair prickling upon his neck.  
  
Slowly, he withdrew the key to open the door from one of the pockets on the breast of his robe and inserted it into the slot, which turned slowly . . . just as it always had, with a quiet click. The lock turned slowly, and the door opened loudly -- as it always did, with a creak. And Isa stepped inside the room.  
  
Details registered before the door was even shut behind him, and, before he had definitively formed a plan of action, Isa turned fully into his bedroom and addressed the empty air. Of course -- of _course_ this would have been his reward for daring to seek a moment’s solitude. Why the devil was he even feigning surprise? It was only the natural course of fate, after all.  
  
So the prince sighed, and addressed the watchful emptiness of what had formerly been his last safe space in the entire kingdom.  
  


"You can come out. I won't run. I've no time or patience for dramatics."

* * *

_Shit. Shit shit shit._ _  
_ _  
_ _How the hell had he been found out?!_ _  
_  
Teeth grit together, Axel froze, staring daggers at the Prince’s boots from underneath the bed as if he could will him to fall dead without touching him. Mind a whirlwind of thoughts, alternating between cursing himself and cursing this bitch of a prince into oblivion, he forced a quiet breath and expelled panic from his mind. Now was time to think -- to be clever. Axel was good at clever. This wasn’t the first tricky situation he’d found himself in -- not by a long shot -- and he wasn’t going to let himself panic. This was just a way to keep things interesting. 

For several tense heartbeats after the rich timbre of the prince had echoed through the chambers, he was quiet, debating whether or not to truly reveal himself. It wouldn’t have been the first time that someone, in fear of some unseen bogeyman, had addressed an empty room only to let out nervous, shaking laughter and curse their own paranoia a moment later. . .  
  
. . . But the prince’s feet remained still, pointed in his direction and showing no sign at all of even the slightest amount of nervous shifting. That was new, even for Axel . . . it wasn’t often he was met with some kind of tough-guy act that was actually convincing.  
  
Slowly, lazily, with a smirk on his face that suggested no skin off his back at having been found out, he slunk from underneath the bed and uncoiled his lanky frame to stand to his full height. “All right, congratulations, your highness . . . “ he drawled, in the process of speaking very strategically moving diagonally to the prince’s side, placed between him and the door. Even if the bastard tried to run, Axel knew he was quicker, and the placement would allow him to sink a dagger into the prince’s back before he could so much as scream. It wouldn’t be the cleanest kill, and he’d like to avoid the mess if at all possible, but it wasn’t a hopeless situation by far. “You got me. I’m impressed, that ain’t easy.” He tilted his head to the side, fluffy and unruly strands of red falling away from his face in the process. “What gave me away?”  
  
The assassin’s smarmy affect was met with one of pure, cold marble. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said the prince was already dead, or maybe never living to begin with. If Axel hadn’t heard him speak, he might have thought that the bastard was naught but a finely painted statue, as was the appearance given by the firm, impassive pallor of his unblemished pale skin. It was pretty, almost, like porcelain, or it would have been if not for the severity of the prince’s features. Strong chin and heavy brow, with well formed nose and thin but shapely lips . . .  
  
It went beyond pretty, really, and Axel had never been one to deprive himself of the opportunity to take in a little eye candy. The prince really was a sight, noble in appearance and holding himself with regality, the silver circlet upon his brow contrasting nightly with what appeared to be incredibly soft and vibrant blue hair, hanging free around his face and to the middle of his back. Axel had never had much shame, nor discriminated when it came to appreciating the human form, and he could admit to himself that the royal was easy on the eyes. . .  
  
He’d look even nicer laid out on his deathbed.  
  
Arms crossed over his chest and knife twirled between his palms, Axel waited as if he had all the time in the world for the prince to answer. Of course, he didn’t, and this was a messy situation that very much could end badly for him, but the prince didn’t need to know that. Axel was already thinking ten, twenty steps ahead, green eyes bright with an intelligence that belied his lazy grin.  
  
He was surprised to find, as he met the prince’s own eyes, to find a similar, smoldering sort of intelligence staring back.  
  
He was even _more_ surprised when the prince turned his back on him and began to unlace his cravat as if this was a typical retirement. Was he dense, or just cocky? If Axel hadn’t been so curious, he might have taken the opportunity to sink his blade into the other’s exposed back. Fortunately for the prince, he was, for some reason, more captivated than bloodthirsty at the moment. He’d see how long that lasted.  
  
“You weren’t exactly subtle,” the prince replied in a monotone voice, not sounding particularly scared or impressed. Did the bastard have no fear? Did he not understand his goddamned position? Something inside of Axel bristled -- he’d had a lot of shit done to him, but not once had someone seemed to not give a flying fuck about his presence to this extent, especially when he was standing in front of them with a blade. “You were staring daggers into my back. You kicked up my rug.”  
  
The “kicked up” rug in question was pointed out with the tiniest of nods and for half a second Axel couldn’t find it. What his target appeared to be referring to was, in fact, a tiny wrinkle, likely caused by Lea pulling the rug a bit when he rolled under the bed.  
  
Right as he opened his mouth to argue, the prince continued speaking. “And, of course, this entire room reeks of acceleran. Your accelerant -- your same scent -- the same from your performance.” There, he finally spared a glance in the assassin’s direction, expression not changing in the slightest. “Yes, I saw you. I had no desire to stay and watch, but I commend your artistry. Now . . . “  
  
As the assassin watched in confusion, the prince removed his circlet and set it to the side on a chest, then turned back to the assassin while pulling down the collar of his shirt, which had been unlaced to bare what was -- if Axel was honest -- a rather gorgeous display of pristine, pale flesh, and the slightest hint of a sculpted marble chest.  
  
“Tell me, are you planning to kill me any time soon, or would you like to continue staring at me like a dead fish?” the slightest bit of scorn had crept into the prince’s tone, though it was far from the burning hatred that Axel would have expected -- as if his appearance was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.  
  
“Wait -- what?!” he blurted out, letting out a startled laugh before dropping his arms to his side and waving his knife-wielding hand slightly in front of him. _Just_ in case the prince needed a reminder of what he was here for. “You’re seriously just going to let me gut you? Are you an idiot, or do you just have a death wish? Don’t see that a lot with your kind, you know. Right about now they’re typically begging me to live and I’m laughing my ass off.”  
  
An impassive countenance finally broke in the form of rolling eyes, and the prince sighed while shaking his head and allowing his hand to fall from the collar of his shirt. “I’ve already told you, I’ve no patience for dramatics,” he stated bluntly. “Besides that, I’ve never begged for anything in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. Least of all to someone like me.”  
  
“Someone like me, huh?” Axel echoed with another laugh, even as he fought down a surge of anger. Something about those sharp eyes and equally sharp words was getting under his skin more than he cared to admit. “What, not gonna offer me gold in exchange for your miserable life? Not even gonna try?”  
  
The prince snorted in response, then shook his head the slightest bit and moved towards his bed. Grimacing, likely in response to the smell of the chemical on the underside of his mattress, he sat down and then lounged back a bit against the pillows with his elbow resting on a draw up knee. “All of the gold in my posession belongs to my subjects. I will not hand it over to an assassin in return for something as insignificant as my existence. That's wealth that I fully intend to redistribute amongst my kingdom, not use as a bartering chip.”  
  
As Axel continued to stare, now balking at the _audacity_ of the prince’s superior and somehow simultaneously far too casual attitude, he continued to run his damned mouth, leaving the assassin with his mouth moving soundlessly like the aforementioned fish. “I’ve systems in place that will ensure the safety of my kingdom long after my death, should it occur prematurely, so it does not matter particularly if I live to carry them out. My younger brother will carry them to fruition, and after your having assassinated me, any other adversaries will have a far more difficult time getting to him. So . . ."  
  
The prince let out another sigh and once more tugged the collar of his shirt down, leaving it fallen open to bare his neck and a good portion of his upper chest. A chest the assassin couldn’t quite help his eyes from flickering towards -- of course, out of what had to be desire to sink his blade into it and watch the blood fall forth. "If it's my time to die, I'll do nothing to avoid it. I'd like to go with dignity, and with as little dramatism as possible, if you don't mind. So, what exactly are you waiting for? Would you rather do your job, or continue to pester me with frivolous questions?"  
  
Axel took a moment to answer; he was, admittedly, a bit distracted, but his hesitation went beyond. He’d been an assassin for long enough now to know when the details of a situation didn’t match up like they were supposed to. A hair out of place, a break in an expression that betrayed truth . . . a wrinkle in a rug. . . a prince that didn’t quite match up to the portrait he’d been handed.  
  
“Wait, wait wait wait . . . “ he held up a hand, mind finally snapping to attention and back to one of the words the prince had spoken. “I get that you’re probably tryna trick me into letting you live, but you don’t gotta fuckin lie to me. Wealth belonging to your subjects -- _bullshit.”_  
  
Rhythm regained, a fire lit within the assassin’s chest as he spoke. “Most people out there outside your pretty little bubble ain’t seen a shilling in years. They’re starving and dying, and you got the nerve to tell me you’re _protecting_ them? Nah -- no, no no no no no.”  
  
He tsked, twirling the dagger in his hand while lithely sauntering closer to the bed, placed now perfectly between the prince and the door. There would be no way out. “Can’t lie to me, royal scum. Your death was ordered for a reason, and that’s because you and your goddamned family are parasites sucking every bit of your kingdom dry. Paper I got for you says you’re the worst of all of ‘em. If you’re gonna be a dictator, at least own it.”  
  
Whatever reaction he’d been expecting from the prince in response, he got entirely the opposite. Before he had time to so much as think, those cold blue eyes had flashed and the prince was on his feet, closing the distance between them rather fast for a larger fellow and staring directly into Axel’s eyes while pressed close, seemingly without fear of the blade.  
  
A blade which Axel raised in retaliation, entirely on reflex, now pressed perfectly into the hollow of the prince’s throat, ready to cut inside. The prince didn’t seem to notice the danger, nor the line of blood that now streaked down his chest.  
  
_“You shut your damned mouth, you cur,”_ the royal snarled in a low voice, and had he been anyone else, Axel would have shivered. _“You have no idea what you’re talking about, so if you’re going to do your job then fucking do it and cease wasting my time with the pointless drivel that streams pathetically from your miserable mouth. I have never, not once in my life, done anything that wasn’t for the good of my kingdom, despite what the mongrels who hired you might have said, and I will have that known upon my deathbed. You do not get to fool yourself into believing you’re some sort of hero.”_

  
It was in that moment that Axel did something extremely rare.  
  
He hesitated.  
  
Blade already drawing blood and target grown violent, his hand stilled in place as his own frenzied green eyes met the cold, close stare of the prince, only a few inches away and kept at bay entirely by his threatening blade. Though neither spoke, only the sound of their breath breaking the quiet, the inside of his mind was loud, a flurry of activity and decision. It would be so easy -- so very easy -- to press that knife forward and end the prince’s life right here.  
  
But something stilled his hand. Something unnamable; just a rug out of place. Axel was curious -- and a curious Axel was a dangerous thing.  
  
But, for the prince, maybe not.  
  
Finally breaking the stillness, his fingers flexed on the hilt of the knife, not yet moving out of position but neither sinking deeply into the flesh beneath. “Why don’t you fuckin’ tell me, then . . . “ he said slowly. “Why if you’re such a beloved and upstanding ruler, everyone wants you dead.” 

Though they didn’t falter the slightest in meeting Axel’s stare, something flickered within the prince’s eyes. Lips pressed together, a muscle in his jaw tensing, and Axel knew in that moment the royal was nowhere near as unaffected as he appeared. Whether from simple fear or desire to live for some more complicated reason, the prince didn’t truly want to taste metal through his windpipe. The question, now, became whether whatever feeling it was that had caused him to tense would win out over pride.  
  
Slowly, the prince’s lips pared, and he countered not with an answer, but a question. “ . . . Who has hired you, killer . . . ?” he breathed. “. . . What have they told you causes me to deserve the grave, and what will be your prize for delivering me?”  
  
“Nothing you gotta worry about,” Axel countered immediately, then paused as he thought. If he wanted his curiosity sated, he’d likely have to give a little in return. Small price, he supposed, when this would all be over soon. “. . . Said you’re brutal.” He shrugged. “A threat to your people. Real scary politics, like your old man. Didn’t think twice about, you know -- this place doesn’t exactly have the greatest reputation.”  
  
A bitter laugh, and the blade pressed briefly closer as the prince forced a breath, the motion causing a new line of red to streak down his chest. “A threat to my people. . . “ he echoed, then let out a bitter laugh of his own and shook his head, looking angry but not particularly surprised. “Hardly. Not in the slightest, in fact. A threat, however, to the capitalist traders, corrupt nobles, and fear mongers who delivered you that order -- that, I am, absolutely. My policies are adverse to my fathers’ and, while I am forced to compromise in court, I have several plans of action in place and steps taken towards ensuring that every bit of his actions are undone or at the very least mitigated by the time that I ascend to the throne.”  
  
An ascension that would never happen, now, which the prince recognized if the flicker behind his eyes was any indication. He spoke with the air of a man who wasn’t used to speaking suck secrets, words direct and full of conviction, yet stilted as if they’d have otherwise been held back. Axel had grown to know and read people very well, over the years, and though the prince was difficult and stoic he could make out enough to begin to put together the pieces of the puzzle.  
  
These were the words of a man with naught much else to lose, speaking secrets that would either send him to his grave or allow him to carry them out. Though still uncertain of the complete nature of the situation, Axel could make sure of one thing . . .  
  
His target had been sincere stating that, on his deathbed, he wanted it recognized that he’d done his best to be a worthy ruler.  
  
_Shit._

His own expression unreadable, Axel continued to stare the prince down, unwilling to blink first. He found nothing but conviction and resolve in the other’s gaze, and not a single flinch from the body pressed close to his own. The only sign of his target’s nerves was a slight bobbing of the throat, set off by a tightly clenched jaw and eyes of blue fire. . .  
  
Axel laughed, expression breaking into a grin, and dropped the blade. “You’re some piece of work, you know that?” he asked while shaking his head, backing slowly away a few steps as he watched a minute amount of tension melt from the prince’s shoulders. “A real bitch, too. I would really like nothing more than to carve you up like a turkey -- bet you’d look real pretty, all blue and red.”  
  
He tilted his head to the side, watching as the prince bristled in anger, but continued speaking before the other could open his mouth. “. . . Unfortunately, I _really_ don’t like being lied to . . . and either you are . . . or the other guy is.”  
  
He shrugged, lazily, as if it was no skin off his back. Of course, it very much was.  
  
But Axel was curious. 

“Sooooo . . . you get a break while I figure it out.” The knife twirled over deft, thin fingers, then was slid back into its hilt on Axel’s thigh. Its movement was tracked by the eyes of the prince, flickering in an otherwise impassive face, and Axel couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of pleasure at having gained even such a slight reaction. An impish smile twisting his features, he watched as a tiny bit of tension ebbed from his target’s shoulders and a breath passed pale lips. “Lips shut, alright, cause I’ll be back once I get everything dotted and crossed, and you _really_ don’t wanna see me pissed off, got it memorized? Enjoy the stay of execution, your highness.”  
  
Somehow managing to do it sarcastically, he gave a sweeping bow, then backed lazily towards the door as the prince stiffened in what Axel assumed was offense. Turning towards the door and fully intending to saunter out how he’d come in -- no one ever expected him to come through the front door -- he prepared himself for whatever final parting statement the prince would send his way, likely some sort of insult.  
  
But it was not the prince’s voice that met his ears, but the higher pitched tone of a guard right outside the chambers. Axel’s voice registered the sound too late, and he froze with his hand on the door handle as he suddenly found himself forcibly grabbed and turned around.  
  
He scarcely had a moment to panic, and none at all to reach for his blade, before the prince had grabbed him. It was to his credit that he hadn’t yelled as he found his back shoved roughly against hard stone and his wrists secured above his head. Wide-eyed, he could only stare as the prince pressed incredibly close, close enough for Axel to feel the heat of his body, with a hand pressed firmly over the assassin’s mouth.  
  
“-- Highness?” The voice of the guard came again, rapping quickly on the door. “You’re late for the counsel. The Bishop requests your presence. Are you alright in there? Is something amiss?”  
  
_Shit. Shit shit shit shitshitshitshit --_ The chorus in Axel’s mind suddenly lost all semblance of intelligence, all thought and capacity to retaliate fleeing as he dissolved into a panic at his prone, vulnerable position and the way that he’d somehow manage to lose all control of the situation in a matter of seconds. The prince, while a few inches shorter, was much broader and physically strong, and he had Axel quite literally backed against a hard place. Unable to even voice his protest due to the hand pressed roughly against his mouth and gripping his jaw, he could only stare into those eyes, as sharp and dangerous as steel.  
  
_I’m dead, I fucked up, I’m fucking dead --_ he cursed himself. _He’s gonna call his lap dog and have me drug off to the dungeon -- that’s if they don’t just run me through right away. Shit shit shit, I’ve gotta do something, I can’t go out like this, can’t let them take my head --_

Eyes huge and body for once completely still, he scarcely noticed when the prince spoke, addressing the figure on the other side of the wall but still staring daggers into Axel’s eyes. It was a stare that he couldn’t break away from, no matter how he tried. Helpless, he gave a tiny and futile jerk against the prince’s grip, then let out a rush of panicked air that ran across the skin of the man he should have killed.  
  
“Forgive me, I became preoccupied,” came the prince’s voice, entirely cool and collected, as he held immobile and firm. “Everything is alright. Carry out your duties, and I’ll be done in a moment.”  
  
_What? He . . ._ Axel took a moment to notice that he hadn’t been exposed, at which point he balked and dissolved into shock. Was the prince fucking stupid?  
  
The second that his wrists and mouth were released and a tiny bit of space given between him and the royal, he shoved against his chest and darted for the window on the other side of the room. It wasn’t his preferred exit, but it was one that he’d leave alive, and that was all that mattered. Heart still hammering in his throat and face flushed hot for reasons he had yet to understand, he threw a leg over the sill and glanced down, deciding it was possible to scale the wall and slip away. Enough time had been wasted, and that had been a close enough call for Axel not to waste any more. He was out, now, and wouldn’t look back --  
  
Except that he did, eyes flashing back towards the other man as he once again spoke in that far too composed tone.  
  
“There. We are even, killer.”

Axel didn’t dignify the comment with a response, for once shaken into silence, but he did manage to flash the prince a wide grin and a wink before dropping fully over the ledge and disappearing into the bright glare of the setting sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, there we go! I hope you liked the second chapter! They've finally started talking, and trouble brews beneath the surface of an already unstable relationship . . . 
> 
> More of Isa's PoV next chapter, and we'll start to get to know him better!


	3. Illusion of Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince reflects upon happenings outside of his control, and another character makes an appearance.

Power and control were intangible, fragile things. Isa knew that better than anyone by now. No amount of silver, gold, nor titles could grant one control over their own life. Yet, they were lucky. Plenty of people, silverless and nameless, had less control than that, forever subservient and bound by the manufactured constructs that were the rules of society written in thick red ink by soft and lotioned hands that knew not the labor they demanded.    
  
And yet, were they not free? Was there not freedom in having little to lose?    
  
The notion was one that Isa had mulled over at length, breath stilled in his chest as he held his tongue and kept the anger that forever burned within him tightly contained behind walls of marble infallibility. Often, that was the only control that one had.    
  
Over their own breath.    
  
Of course, some people were deprived of even that, weren’t they?    
  
It was a possibility that Isa had never before considered; yet, clearly, he should have done so. Every heartbeat spent staring down the assassin, he’d cursed his own foolishness, teeth ground together and shame reverberating through every pulse of hatred and repressed fear. He was a man of forethought; of plans. How had it not occurred to him to plan for an assassin? He should have carried a weapon. Heightened defense.  _ Something. _   
  
Perhaps he’d grown more complacent and egocentric than he’d realized. . . not that he would admit it.    
  
Nor would he admit the exact nature of the thoughts that had run through his mind at facing his would-be murderer. Nearly the entire altercation, Isa had been convinced that this would be his last foolish day on earth, and motivation had gone before all else to preserving his sense of pride. The prince was, and would always be, an unreadable book -- a cold, marble statue of a man, as chilling, constant, and infallible as moonlight.    
  
So he’d locked all emotion behind the heavy steel trap of his mind, resignation replacing it, along with a desire to go out as nobly as possible. Not even in his final moments would he give in to base impulse. . .    
  
At least, that had been his intention.    
  
Behind that wall dwell, of course, a small measure of fear, but it was for the most part drowned out. Anger was far more powerful, towards both his assassin and whoever had dared to send him. Had Isa not been a logical man, banking on the small chance of emerging from the situation alive, he might have seen fit to tackle the other to the ground and fight till his last breath, despite his being unarmed. Though the mongrel didn’t deserve the honor of seeing Isa lose his composure. That had been his intent. . . a dignified resistance, providing as little satisfaction to his assassin and those who sent them as possible. It had been within his reach, spurned on by the feeling of satisfaction that his efforts had been successful enough to attract such hatred in the first place. . .    
  
Then, Isa had broken.    
  
A few words was all it had taken -- just the barest insinuation that Isa had wanted anything but the very best for his people. While not outside the realm of reasonable assumption based on his own rather frigid persona and notorious impassivity, it would be easy to misconstrue that Isa didn’t care -- that he served the systems already in place, rather than fought against them. Nothing had ever cut so deep, and he doubted severely that even the assassin’s weapon could have done so. Nothing before had been so very  _ insulting. _   
  
A single nerve struck, a single crack in foundation, and Isa’s icy calm had melted into nothing as his infallible countenance gave in to rage. He’d hardly noticed the knife against his skin; in retrospect, it was a wonder he hadn’t impaled himself. The cold pricking of metal into his skin and burning heat of his anger was all he knew as he’d stared into the assassin’s eyes and said his piece.    
  
Then . . . the knife was gone, the assassin had backed away.    
  
And Isa had finally let out his breath.    
  
Even now, he wasn’t sure what had stopped him from alerting the guard to the assassin’s presence. Days had passed since his would-be murder, and Isa had yet to understand his own actions. By all accounts, he should have had the other carted off to the dungeon -- was it some sense of honor that had stilled his hand?    
  
Something more?    
  
Something deeper, perhaps, and unnamable -- something stirring in his chest that caused the prince to feel more alive than he had in years. A spark, warming the inside of his frozen core, even if it was only heated by the fire of rage and a powerful *hate.*    
  
At least Isa had felt something.    
  
It was as if, since that day, all of his breath had escaped him in a rush. That firm control, lost in a world that had been shaken to its core and a moment that fit not into the rest of the narrative he’d lived and planned. No longer did Isa hold his breath, and no longer did time stand still. Instead, it had warped into a blur, and part of the prince felt as if he’d woken up from some sort of dream, every nerve alight and a new lease written in blood and drawn with pointed metal. If Isa were lucky, he’d never have to see that bastard’s face again; never more to face that smarmy smile, nor the disrespectful, condescending sneer below eyes like poison in a face like a fox . . .    
  
Then again, Isa had never been lucky, and the hairs on the back of his neck refused to settle.    
  
“-- Sa? Isa.  _ Isa.  _ Are you alright? You’re glaring at the parchment as if it’s done you a personal disservice.”    
  
The wry, concerned tone of his younger brother was the only thing that stirred Isa from his reflection. Blinking, he lifted his head the slightest bit from where it had been resting upon the knuckles of his hand, then winced when he realized he’d sat immobile long enough for the bones to make an impression in the skin.    
  
The parchment in front of him held only a few lines in an elegant but neat script; a letter to ally in a neighboring kingdom who would, if Isa had his way, assist in developing a more streamlined trade route that would avoid the elimination of villages that interfered in Isa’s own design. It was extremely important, and not the sort of thing he could let slip through his fingers.    
  
Though the ink on his quill had now dried, as had that on the paper that he glanced away from in order to meet his companion’s gaze. One sparkling gray eye met his own, the other hidden by a messy sweep of slate-blue hair, several shades darker than Isa’s own.    
  
“. . . Forgive me, Ienzo, I’m a bit preoccupied,” he muttered then rubbed his temple while dipping his quill once more into the well of ink at his side. It had been foolish, perhaps, of him to attempt to get any work done in the study. His brother, while typically quiet and absorbed with his own reading, was also on occasion too perceptive for his own good.    
  
Subtly, Isa adjusted the cravat around his throat, ensuring that it still hid the healing cut left behind as proof of his dangerous encounter. Shoulders squared and deep breath taken -- held for several moments in his chest -- he proceeded to ignore Ienzo from his place in the plush chair by the room’s fireplace, where he watched Isa over the edge of his book.    
  
Or, rather, he tried, but the little bastard didn’t appear to be willing to be ignored today. “That’s what little sleep and an obsession with work does to you,” Ienzo tsked and shook his head, then turned sideways in the chair and tossed his legs over one arm while leaning backwards against the other. His book was rested on his chest, a thumb licked to turn the page even while he continued to address his older brother. “You need to relax a bit. I can practically hear your muscles creaking under the pressure you put upon them, poor things.”    
  
“I cannot afford a  _ break,  _ Ienzo,” Isa replied slowly while rubbing his temple. In the past minute, he’d only managed to make a non-committal line upon the paper in front of him that could be turned into any letter at all, and yet was none of them. “Some of us have more to attend to than academics, you know. Which, despite being your only responsibility, you appear to have neglected.”    
  
“I’ve already completed the curriculum designed for me. This is all pleasure reading.” A young man, six moons away from his eighteenth birthday, Ienzo was a clever and precocious fellow, and the younger son of the king. Or, rather, in Isa’s own opinion, his little brother would be clever if he wasn’t so remarkably thick-headed. “Besides that, what’s there to be done? The kingdom is as well as ever. Lovely and shining. There’s little to do but instruct the gardens to be watered, and enjoy the prosperity we’ve been given.”    
  
The fickle letter having now become a “K” -- or perhaps an “R” -- Isa’s hand once again stilled, halting all progress. There it was, once again . . . the glaring break in the spiderweb of Ienzo’s intelligence. Rose-tinted fog along the eyes of an academic who’d spent his life in a chamber of books and written word, having never once seen for himself the authenticity of what was written -- or, rather, lack thereof.    
  
Though clever beyond measure, Prince Ienzo, the charming youngest son of the Bastion king, was completely, utterly, and entirely spoiled. Some of that was Isa’s fault, of course; he’d long since been weak to his younger brother’s pouting. A cute child, grown into a handsome and smart young adult -- in fact, oft bordering upon manipulative -- Ienzo had never been given cause to think of anything beyond the walls of his pleasant castle life. The rhetoric that existed within said echo chamber, shared by noblemen, advisors, and royalty, served to praise the so-called fairness of the kingdom and shelter his young mind from the horrors that lie in the dirt and all along the outside of the protective walls of ivory tower.    
  
“. . . That we are prospering does not mean that there is not work to be done. Nor that no more can be done to further improve.”    
  
Why Isa had never been able to bring himself to counter Ienzo’s false worldview, he did not like to consider. Perhaps keeping Ienzo in the dark was a way of protecting him. Perhaps Isa was simply too cowardly to do so. Either way, he could not bring himself, no matter how he tried, to be the one to lay bare the evils of their society and disillusion the boy from his fairytale perception.    
  
Heavy retort stilled his throat and reality hidden from Ienzo behind the ever-present infallible facade, Isa resigned his letter to its momentary death and blotted his indeterminate letter dry before beginning to roll the parchment into a scroll. What was typically a razor-sharp and unshakable focus appeared to have been stolen, apparently by someone who, not only a murderer, was a thief, as well.    
  
“Well, it’s not as if you’re going to do that with a single letter, anyway, your royal stiffness,” Ienzo teased, leg lazily kicking in the air. “You should take a rest. We hardly ever play anymore. Let’s go out to the gardens like we used to -- oh! We can request the sweet-vender stop by and get treats while out on our walk! Come on, Isaaaa . . . “ Book dropped into his lap as he sat upright once more and looked eagerly towards his other brother with eyes akin to that of a stray kitten, Ienzo pouted and attempted with all of his might to plead. It never ceased to amaze Isa how much a boy who, quiet as the grave in the company of crowds, could turn into some sort of songbird once they were alone. “Pleeeeasse. . . “    
  
Tensing as he placed a hand on the desk and began to stand, Isa hesitated. That single word, and Ienzo nearly had him . . . it  _ had  _ been quite a long while since they’d had the opportunity to spend any bit of casual time together. Isa’s efforts and time had become increasingly more often devoted to preparing for his ascension, and he hadn’t had time for trivial matters such as brotherhood.    
  
He was working to  _ protect  _ Ienzo, and that was more important now than ever after the appearance of the bastard assassin. Any notions of  _ fun  _ could wait until the kingdom was secure under Isa’s control.    
  
The prince took a breath, and held it.    
  
“ . . . I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied in polite but short monotone. It wasn’t the voice typically used with his brother, who was closer to glimpsing Isa’s true self than anyone else, but Isa hadn’t a choice. Anything other than his practiced ruse might have caused him to crack. “I’ve far too much to do. Perhaps later.”    
  
Though his face remained still and hard as marble as he turned away, eyes turned pointedly away from Ienzo’s face in an effort not to cave, Isa didn’t miss the manner in which the other’s expression fell. Playful pleading, immediately replaced by sadness and confusion, and a young man left floundering in an unfamiliar world.    
  
“. . . Very well,” he murmured with a sigh, then dropped back against his chair. “I’ll see if the bishop can take me --  _ he  _ knows how to take a break.” The bishop in question was an older fellow, wise and entangled severely in the affairs of the kingdom. He’d sided with Isa more often than not in matters of safety and politics, but refused to bend in certain areas that made the prince’s teeth ground together. The thought of his brother spending time with the man had never been a fond one, but it had persisted since the boy was a child, and at the very least he’d never caused Ienzo harm.    
  
“Yes, you do that -- find someone else to bother, little midge.”    
  
“Bother, bother bother,” Ienzo sighed, nose wrinkling as he dropped back against his seat. “If this is the level of work you must keep up with, and the level of a horse’s ass said responsibility shapes you into, I’m thankful I’m not destined to take the throne. You can keep all of that to yourself, thank you.”    
  
Bristling the slightest bit, Isa shot a glare over his shoulder, only to be met with his brother’s twinkling eye and slight smirk. Another plea for attention, then, in the form of jests . . . anything for a reaction, he supposed. Isa could have fired back, playful teasing going back and forth as it had done as if a ball in the hands of children.    
  
But he hadn’t the time. There were far too many important things to deal with.    
  
“ . . . Your allowance is appreciated,” was his only reply, subdued and without any emotion in the slightest. Emotion and desire would be stamped out in the face of duty; naught mattered at the moment but Isa’s mission. Ienzo would pout now, but the day would come where he’d thank Isa for his efforts -- nay, he’d never have to, for he’d never know the darkness from which Isa had protected him.    
  
Without another word, but feeling the way that Ienzo’s expressions rumpled like wet paper behind him, Isa set off towards his chambers to continue working in peace.    
  
It was a monotonous routine, and one that he now knew well. In the days since what he’d come to think of as “the incident,” time had sped up but remained no less monotonous. The prince’s days remained a blur of meetings, greetings, horrid gatherings and writing of letters. Drafting of plans -- re-drafting, and arguing, and convincing those out of reach of his father’s sight to indulge him. Construction of plans and arguments that now felt thinner than they had before, to the prince’s ultimate frustration.    
  
Just as he had that day, Isa ascended the stairs. Just as he had every day since, he felt a cold feeling on the back of his neck when he arrived at his door. Just as he’d done every time, he’d turned the key in the lock and turned the door open, then immediately glanced around the room for signs of intrusion before glancing under the bed.    
  
He was straightening from his check when alarm bells rang in his mind, loud and far too late. Muscles tensing, he dropped his hand to his belt, and his hand made contact with the sword he’d taken to carrying as a precaution --    
  
As pale fingers touched leather hilt, so did cold metal find the exposed skin of the prince’s throat.    
  
_ Damn it.  _   
  
“Long time no see, highness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of filler this time . . . still trying to set up the world and introduce all the major players. Things should be picking up very soon! I hope you liked this chapter. Please let me know what you think, if you're comfortable! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Drawing of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, a deal, and a sense of deja vu.

As the snark-filled, all too familiar voice rang in his ears, whatever bit of fear that had managed to rise briefly in Isa’s chest was overshadowed by irritation. The assassin at his back was dangerous -- Isa wasn’t foolish enough to think otherwise. The blade pressed skillfully and quickly to his throat, right above an artery and only the slightest bit of pressure away from breaking the skin, was proof of that.   
  
However, more than any amount of frightening, the assassin was outright _annoying._ He was a gnat; a mosquito, and the knife his stinging bite. How the prince wished, standing stock still and seething in frustration, that he could smack him down to the floor where he belonged and never have to listen again to that trilling _buzz._

“I take it you’ve decided to rectify the conclusion of our last meeting,” he began slowly, in a stable tone, with eyes staring straight ahead. “Does this loose end need tying, after all? Or is this your idea of a cordial greeting?”   
  
A cocky laugh met the prince’s ears, along with the ghosting of breath. It stirred his hair, and Isa grimaced, the assassin’s body and face far too close to his own, just as that knife was far too close to his neck.   
  
“I’m not an idiot. Not gonna fuck up like last time and give you the chance to pin me down,” came the killer’s voice, and Isa couldn’t help wishing that he’d been more careful. All of his planning and foresight, and it had been lost in a single moment of distraction that had allowed the assassin to get the upper hand. Only half-focusing on the other’s words, he shifted, testing his mobility and finding it very little. He remained physically stronger than his opponent, he was certain, but --   
  
The knife dug deeper into his skin.   
  
“Ah, ah, ah, _highness_ . . . “ the bastardous voice came again, and Isa’s hand tightened on the hilt of a sword it was unable to draw. “I’m calling the shots now, got it memorized? Need assurance you’re not gonna wail for your guard dogs. Here’s how it’s gonna work. . . “   
  
The thin body pressed closer, and Isa stiffened while beginning to plan. The other man was growing confident, and if Isa had read him correctly he was a rather large show-off . . . a performer. . . That meant he could easily become distracted by his own show.   
  
“I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen. Then you’re gonna answer when I tell you to, and you’re not gonna call for anybody. And you’re not gonna pull out that pretty belt decoration. If you do, I don’t got any problem painting the floor red.” 

  
“Are you going to get to your point at all, or continue to talk my ears numb?” Isa retorted in a low growl, to which he received another infuriating laugh.   
  
“Jeez, they really don’t teach you royal brats any patience, huh?” A _tsk_ sound was heard, and Isa felt a muscle in his cheek jump even as he fought to keep the rest of his body immobile. “I said, I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen --”   
  
“Then give me something worth listening to, because at the moment I’d rather prefer to slit my own throat,” Isa shot back immediately, and it was only a slight exaggeration.   
  
There was a moment of quiet, then another laugh, breathier than the others and almost sounding surprised. “Shit, alright, alright . . . “ the assassin hummed from his place behind the prince’s back. “I get the picture. See, thing is, highness I’ve been doin my research like I said I was gonna. . . and _that_ picture don’t add up. Not at all.”   
  
The prince’s eyes flickered to the side, but he only managed to catch a brief glimpse of red. That didn’t come as a surprise, considering he hadn’t the full picture, himself. . . what was interesting was why exactly the assassin cared. In line with their agreement, or maybe out of pure spite and malicious compliance, Isa remained silent.   
  


Axel reveals he has no idea what the fuck is going on or why they want Isa dead; puzzle pieces aren’t adding up. Says he’s going to keep a watch on Isa, which pisses him off 

“See . . . “ the assassin eventually continued. “I’m getting different stories. You’re tellin me one thing, my papers say another. Boss won’t tell me nothin more, and nobody can tell me who exactly it is that wants you dead. All I got is that it’s high profile. . . meaning, important, get it, meaning you should already be gone.”   
  
Teeth ground together, Isa resisted the urge to swallow.   
  
“But, thing is, see, nobody can tell me why. I’m gettin that you’re a menace. . . a real bitch, gonna run the kingdom into the ground and kill everybody who can’t make it pretty as it’s supposed to be.”   
  
“I would nev --”   
  
“Shut _up,”_ the words came before Isa could finish his explanation, and he cut off into a growl as something warm trickled down his neck. “Yeah, I’ve heard your song and dance. And it doesn’t match what I’m hearing.”   
  
“What will you do, then?” Isa asked slowly, not desiring to widen his wound further. Part of him was wary, stiffening and preparing to retaliate. If the assassin truly had changed his mind, Isa would _not_ be put down without a fight. “Have you chosen to believe the papers and rumors? If so, I must confess that boring your target to death is rather unprofessional.”   
  
“Smartass,” came the rather ironic statement of the killer, and Isa drew pleasure from the sound of another surprised laugh. “If you’d shut your trap and let me finish, maybe you’d be able to figure out that the puzzle’s still fucked up even if I did decide you were lying to me. See, makes more sense to take out the king and you in one go. Wouldn’t be too hard. . . you meet together often enough, and then that’s two problems at once. If someone really wanted you dead ‘cause they were lookin’ out for the kingdom, they’d ask me to turn you and your papa to ashes. . . “   
  
An abnormally warm body pressed closer, and Isa’s vision went red as the next, devilish words were whispered directly into his ear. “. . . That kid brother of yours, too. Whole family, all laid out in red and burned down to bone.”   
  
Before another putrid word could pass those worm-like lips, Isa slammed his head backwards, away from the knife and without care of its cutting into his flesh. He was met with a startled, yelping cry, accompanied by a sickening crack, and only registered the moment that the knife broke away from his skin before he was twisting out of the death grip in which he’d been caught.   
  
In a matter of seconds, he’d turned on his heel, now facing his black-cloaked assassin head on, and drawn his claymore from its hilt. Blade held out threateningly and eyes staring the other down with all the poison and anger of a basilisk, he bared his teeth and challenged his would-be killer to _dare_ doing such a thing again.   
  
“Insult me all you like, kill me if you must, but mention my brother again and I’ll leave you rotting in the sun for all the other vermin to cannibalize,” he snarled, icy voice dissolving all at once into something enraged. “You will not even _think_ of laying a hand on him, or I’ll have your head right here -- no matter the guards. I’ll take it myself.”   


The assassin, once hit, had stumbled backwards, and was hunched slightly over with his mass of crimson hair hanging over his face. _“Shit --”_ he spat, fingers coming away from his face tinged red. _“You’re a fucking animal --”_   
  
He next surprised Isa by laughing, and looking up with an almost manic look. Grin spread wide and tinted with blood from a split lip, or perhaps from the trail that now ran from his nose, he licked a bit of red away from the corner of his mouth. Eyes sparkled like emeralds, amused and far too bright, and something deep within of Isa knew that, one way or another, he’d never be able to banish their kohl-lined image from his mind.   
  


“Fair enough,” the killer sniffed, fingers probing the edge of his bleeding nose. “Got it, got it . . . well, I won’t. ‘Lest you give me a reason to. Now, I ain’t got none . . . not till the picture’s all put in place.”   
  
He started forward again, knife twirled between his fingers, and Isa thrusted his sword forward in retaliation. Rolling his eyes, the assassin stopped, hands slightly at his side. “Yeah, yeah, big guy . . .” he drawled, not sounding near afraid enough for Isa’s tastes, only for the prince to interrupt.   
  
“Stop wasting my time, and get to the point before I rid your rancid mouth of its poison tongue,” he hissed. “What are you saying? Tell me, before I rid you of the opportunity to do so.”   
  
“Someone’s gonna die.”   
  
The words, for once direct and stated without even a hint of amusement, froze Isa in place. If he’d done nothing else at all, the assassin had captured his attention, and the prince could only stand and stare as he continued to speak.   
  
“I just have to decide who. Find out who, I guess. . . “ the assassin shrugged, then twirled the knife in his hand again before shaking hair from his thin face and smirking. “And, lucky for you, highness, I’m not convinced it’s you.”   
  
“Have you come to look for convincing, then?” Isa demanded, to which he received a snicker.   
  
“Nah . . . well . . . “ the killer shrugged. “Ain’t that simple. Thing is, highness, I’ve decided to keep an eye on you. Won’t even know I’m there, most of the time. Consider me a . . . ‘bodyguard.’”   
  
The way he’d grinned and raised his fingers in mocking quotations as he spoke betrayed the irony of the statement. “I’m gonna watch you -- see if you step outta line. Same time, I’m gonna watch for anyone who wants to fuck with you, see if I can’t figure out where all these orders are coming from. It’s a win-win.”   
  
“And why,” Isa replied, eyes narrowing further as he stepped forward, blade still leveled for the assassin’s thoat. “Would I let someone do such a thing who has already dared to threaten both myself and my brother? What’s stopping me from ending you right now, or at any moment that I sense your presence as you make my life your theatre?”   
  
Not looking particularly threatened, the assassin only grinned. It was a macabre sight; the red of stained skin and teeth mirroring the mane of crimson that circled his face like a flame. “‘Cause right now,” he replied casually. “I’m the only thing keeping another professional from being sent after you. And I’m the only one who gives a shit about helping you find out what’s going on. Call it curiosity, but right now it goes in your favor. . . much as I hate to have to be around a stiff like you. This ain’t any more pleasant for me than it is for you, trust. _Really_ don’t wanna look at your ugly mug more than I have to, but I’ve got standards. Right now they happen to match up with what you probably want, too.”   
  
The knife was twirled, tossed, and caught easily in his hand again. “‘Course, if you’d rather not have to deal with it, I could always cut you up and leave your kingdom to its fate.”   
  
None of those words were pleasant, but Isa hesitated only a moment before speaking. If someone wanted him dead, that meant they wanted his efforts stopped, and that was something the prince couldn’t stand for. Not even for a moment. All of this _couldn’t_ be for nothing . . . he couldn’t leave this responsibility in Ienzo’s reading-softened hands.   
  
After taking a steadying breath, the prince slowly lowered his sword, yet didn’t put it away. “. . . Very well,” he agreed. “I will concede for the moment. Rest assured, however, that at the slightest sign of villainy, I will end you where you stand.”   
  
“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” the assassin shrugged, then sauntered towards the window and sat down on the sil. “Be seeing you later, my prince.”   
  
An impish smile twisted his lips, and a wink was shot in the prince’s direction. With that, and a powerful feeling of deja vu, Isa was left watching the killer drop from the window. Only then did he dare to rest his arm, sword tip now resting on the ground.   
  
It was quickly raised again when a bright red head made its reappearance in the window. “Oh, by the way -- “ its owner said. “‘Prince Isa, crown prince to the Bastion throne . . . ‘ Got your name from my paper. Mine’s Axel, got it memorized? A-X-E-L --” Another wink, and his finger tapped against his temple.   
  
“I don’t rightly care --” Isa began to reply, but the other was already gone.   
  
Once more left living, irritated, and with a bleeding neck in his empty chambers, Isa found himself wondering with a sinking feeling in his stomach how very much he’d come to regret this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost didn't get this one out in time, but here it is!! I hope you liked it. Please don't hesitate to give me feedback. We're getting into a bit of the actual story, now, and action should start picking up. I'm looking forward to writing and sharing the next few chapters with you all.


	5. Burden of Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An assassin makes his plans, and a new player makes his appearance.

Lengthy infiltration-type missions weren’t usually Axel’s bag. He worked quickly, and that was usually just how he and his boss liked it -- in and out, with limited mess and little to worry about. The whole “laying low and buying time” thing left a lot to be desired, at least as far as entertainment went, and the few longer missions that he’d been sent on had been nothing short of soul-sucking.    
  
That said, he was damned good at it, and Axel knew it.    
  
At least this town had shit to do, and the mission was holding his attention better than most. There were perks to the thing being voluntary, too; as far as boss-man knew, Axel was just biding his time until he could cut the princeling open, and the moment he got bored of the search that’s exactly what would happen.    
  
Never mind his still slightly swollen face, and the bruises that mixed with the kohl under his eyes from his highness’ parting gift.    
  
Luckily, the injury wasn’t obvious enough to gain much attention as he sauntered through the market. A wink, a smile, or a toss of his striking hair was more than enough to drive the attention of anyone who looked away from his sore nose and towards vibrant green eyes instead. If a single look didn’t work, of course, he always had his words. Luckily, they hadn’t needed to be put to use much -- at least, not since he’d sweet talked that baker’s daughter into giving him a free lunch.    
  
Whistling to himself, the assassin tucked his hands into his pockets and squinted towards the midday sun. Was it this late, already . . . ? Time sure flew when one was bored completely out of his damned mind.    
  
While the prince’s situation was intriguing, Axel had been disappointed to find that every shining puzzle piece led to a dead end, fitting with none of the others in his possession. It was as if he’d been handed two completely different pieces of fine porcelain, each smashed to bits and then with the shards too entangled together to be able to put back into the whole picture. It was Axel’s job, now, to sift through the mess with deft fingers and figure out which pieces belonged to the real deal . . .    
  
And which belonged to a fake, passed off to him as truth in what was an insult to him as a professional.    
  


So far, he’d been left with nothing but a confusing mess of tangled half-truths, lies, and dead ends. Questioning the rest of his guild had led nowhere, and his boss was being even more cryptic than usual, which was an incredible feat for the bastard. All things considered, Axel deserved a bit of a vacation, and if the only way to get it was in the down time between intrusions on his highness’ personal space, then so be it.    
  


Not that this particular market was anything close to a vacation spot. It was on the grittier side of the kingdom which meant that it was. . . well,  _ gritty.  _ Dogs and chickens cut through streets that were little more than well-packed dirt. Far away were the vibrant gardens and lush greenery of the inner city, and the only flowers that bloomed here were made of dull paint and cloth, stretched over stalls of rotting wood in an effort to add cheer and radiance to an otherwise dismal environment.    
  
Yet, it was  _ lively,  _ and for some reason the assassin couldn’t help but smile as he sauntered among the rows of shops, looking over worn and dusty wares that were shoddy at best and  _ interesting  _ if described politely. Chatter echoed around him, every now and then a bout of genuine laughter, and he couldn’t help but note a dissonance here. There was a  _ presence,  _ intangible and strange, that was lacking completely in the more glitz and polished areas closer to the castle. Here, a skip in his step and warm summer air in his lungs, he felt the heartbeat and pulse of the kingdom, separate from its painted face and the mask that covered it.    
  
“How’s the harvest, mama?” Axel asked the keeper of what appeared to be a fruit stand as he approached, flashing the dismally toned woman a grin. By the looks of things, the harvest wasn’t very good, and that showed painfully clearly in the size of the goods, their mottled coloring, and the scowl that was turned in his direction.    
  
“A lot better without ruffians tryin’ ta’ rob me of what little I’ve got left, I’ll tell you that, boy,” she bit back with a scoff, words punctuated by the snapping of a washcloth in her hands towards a fly that was buzzing about what appeared to be small strawberries. Though it failed to make contact, the cracking noise caused both fly and assassin to put a small bit of distance between themselves and the angry marm. “Are you after ‘em, too? ‘Fraid I’ll be needing to see a shilling before I let you touch. We don’t do free samples, here, brat learned that very well. Of all the nerve -- no one knows how t’ raise their children nowadays, I’ll tell you that. . . “    
  
The woman continued muttering to herself, fussing over the underdeveloped fruits that were her livelihood, as Axel’s smile faded a bit into a frown.  _ Brat? No . . . Don’t tell me . . . _   
  
There was always the chance the woman was referring to a  _ different  _ vagabond child, but Axel had never been that fortunate.    
  
“Got a thief around, huh? Little rat?” he asked, pity overcoming him. With an internal, disappointed sigh, he snuck a few pieces of fruit that he’d shoved into his pocket upon first approaching the stall back into their proper place. Man,  _ fuck  _ having a moral code. . .    
  


“Rabid one,” the vendor answered with a huff, shaking her head. “Tried to make off with a whole bin, got them all crushed when I caught him. Baker’s taking care of ‘im, now.”    
  
“Taking care of . . . ?” Axel replied, then trailed off when he noticed the woman was no longer paying attention to him. Shaking his head and attempting to ignore the heavy pit settling in his belly, he glanced around the immediate area with calculating eyes. So much for a fuckin vacation. 

Hair prickling on the back of his neck from fine-tuned danger sensing instincts, he found his eyes settling upon a darkened space between two nearby, dilapidated buildings. Attempting to keep his gate as casual as possible, he then started away from the stall and towards the space’s opening, heart sinking in his chest when he heard thudding sounds reverberating quietly from the gap. A few more feet closer, and voices made their appearance, as well.    
  
“Someone oughtta teach ya -- ain’t right, ain’t bloody right. Preyin’ on a poor old woman -- “  _ Smack.  _

“She wasn’t going to miss it -- I’d pay back when I could --  _ Ow _ \-- it’s not like anyone else was going to buy those moldy old berries, anyway!”    
  
Fuck . . . that second voice was  _ far  _ too familiar for Axel’s comfort. Hand falling to his belt and resting on the sharpened, silver disc kept hanging there, he pressed himself close to the wall and crept closer, continuing to listen for as long as he dared. He’d rather not have to take a civilian, but if worse came to worst, it wouldn’t be the first time adding one more set of old, dusty bones to the earth.    
  
“Shut your trap, little dog -- barkin at me. No one’s raised ya, eh? Lettin’ brats run wild, ain’t right, I’ll set you straight if no one else’s gonna, ya little --”    
  
“Wait --  _ NO --” _ _   
_ _   
_ “Roxas?”    
  
As casual as if he were greeting a friend asked out to lunch, Axel stepped out from around the corner. Hip cocked, he disguised the hand poised on his weapon as casual posture, raising his eyebrows at the display in front of him as if it were something only mildly amusing.    
  
The reality was far from ideal, however, and nimble fingers tightened on the blade.    
  
A large, beefy man with unkempt, thinning hair was looking towards Axel in pure shock, distracted from the figure in his grasp. A fist, large but gaunt with the appearance of someone built large-framed and ill-fed, was clenched around the thin tan arm of a young boy who looked towards Axel with equally wide but much happier eyes over a freckle-splattered nose and through askew strands of messy, dirty-blonde hair.    
  
_ “Axel --”  _ the boy exhaled in a breath of pure relief, then began struggling in earnest once more against the grip holding him in place.    
  
“There ya’ are, bud . . .” Despite the anger urging him to yank the other away from the one holding him captive, Axel’s voice remained calm and lazy. Pretending to look confused, he tilted his head to the side and quirked an eyebrow while looking towards the man he presumed to be the baker the fruit vendor had mentioned. “What’s, uh . . . what’s goin on here?”    
  
“Little tramp tried to make off with a whole cart’a’ berries, the thief --” the large man returned, shaking Roxas’ arm and causing him to grimace as the motion rattled the entirety of his body. The smile that had risen to the child’s face upon Axel’s appearance immediately disappeared, replaced by a grimace, and he struggled while trying to keep his footing. “There’s places they’d’ve took a hand for that, gotta put the boy in his place. ‘E with you?”    
  
As he gave the boy another shake, it became a royal struggle to keep his cool, but Axel managed enough to deliver what he hoped was a deescalating retort. “Yeah, unfortunately . . . my bad, had to take off to do a job. Shouldn’t have left the kid alone . . . don’t worry, I’ll take care of him from here. C’mon, man, you know that ain’t cool.”    
  
He ‘tsked, meeting Roxas’ wide blue eyes with his own and watching with amusement as the boy bit back a smile. After all, there was more than one occasion when they’d made off with prizes far greater than moldy strawberries, and they’d done so together. “Yeah . . . “ the boy answered anyway, eyes flickering “sadly” towards the ground. He went limp in the baker’s fist, suddenly the picture of remorse. “I’m sorry.”    
  
Narrowed eyes flickered back and forth between the assassin and his ward for several moments before the baker dropped Roxas’ arm and shoved him in Axel’s direction. The boy stumbled, then slammed into the assassin’s skinny chest before managing to find his footing and scampering to the other’s side. “See to it that you do,” the civilian huffed, rubbing at a red and swollen nose for a moment before pushing past Axel out of the alleyway. “There’s folks out there not as kind as me.”    
  
“Yeah, and there’s a lot of kinder assholes, too . . . “ Axel muttered under his breath as he watched the man depart. As soon as he was out of sight, he nudged Roxas with his elbow and genuinely relaxed, hand dropping from his weapon with a sigh. At least he’d made it free of the situation without having to draw any blood in front of the kid . . .    
  
“Ok -- do I gotta ask ya, or do ya just wanna tell me and get it over with, huh?” Arms crossing over his chest, he turned in Roxas’ direction and dropped his shoulders backwards against the wood behind him to lean on the wall. Eyebrow crooked expectantly, he watched as the boy offered a sheepish smile, clearly struggling between gratefulness and rebellion.    
  
“You just . . .  _ left,”  _ was the first thing Roxas blurted out. “I got  _ bored.  _ And hungry. What was I supposed to do?” Expression settling somewhere in the middle of things, the boy pouted, arms crossed over his chest.    
  
“Yeah, well, I do that sometimes. You know that,” Axel shrugged, then sighed, brow creasing wearily for a moment before once more smoothing over into his typical carefree expression. “Look, man, you could have done -- fuck, anything  _ but  _ messy, petty theft and almost getting yourself a beat-down. You know where my stash is hidden, you didn’t have to steal food.”    
  
“I got tired of hardtack bread,” Roxas protested. “And I needed -- I don’t know,  _ action.”  _ He looked up, guilt and sadness shining in his eyes through an aura of pleading. “This is . . . a big job for you, isn’t it? It’s been longer than normal. Maybe I could help, if you just  _ let _ me --”    
  
And, there they were again. The same old song and dance, and one that Axel knew very well. He’d heard it sung from the boy’s throat nearly every day since he’d first taken the boy in, nearly a year ago, now. Though, taken in was sort of a strong term; a closer approximation to reality would be that he fed the boy and helped him find shelter between jobs while forking over an allowance and letting the kid trail after him like a baby duck. Stupid fucking bleeding heart. . . you save a poor orphan from a band of robbers  _ once  _ and he latches on for life.    
  
“Ah -- no, no, not that again.” Shaking his head and waving a finger in the air, Axel pushed off from the wall and started out of the alley, not needing to look back to feel Roxas following on his heels. “Told ya’, I don’t do the kinda work you’d be any good at.”    
  
“Then teach me!” Roxas perked up, sounding excited, and ran in front of Axel to walk backwards while flashing his biggest puppy eyes. “I can learn. I can steal. I can pick locks like no one else. What’s this job that’s so hard that you won’t let me help you?”    
  
“I’m just askin around, you know,” Axel shrugged, then flashed the boy a wink while pressing a finger to his own lips. “And that’s a  _ secret.  _ You know that, kid, come on.”    
  
The excitement in Roxa’s eyes faded away to frustration, and for a moment Axel was convinced he was going to argue as he watched his teeth grit. “Anyway --” he interrupted before Roxas could formulate an argument. “You still hungry? I got money, man, shoulda just tracked me down.”    
  
“I --” Roxas opened his mouth, hesitating for a moment as he weighed his options. Unfortunately, it was a decision that his stomach made for him, and his shoulders fell as a growling sound echoed in the air between them. “ . . . Yeah . . . “    
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Axel laughed, then draped a lanky arm around the teenager’s shoulders and started leading him in the direction of a shop he’d passed earlier. It was one of the less grubby ones, fortunately, which meant it was probably the least likely to feed them some kind of insect. Probably. “Let’s get a bit of meat on ya . . . I’m thinkin turkey legs.”    
  
It wasn’t something that Roxas could argue with, and he was quiet as he was led through the grimy streets and to the aromatic stall. Once Axel had ordered, he held onto his own piece and offered Roxas’ to him with a flourish, not at all surprised when it was taken far too quickly to be polite and torn into with a ravenous hunger.    
  
“I’m guessing you like it,” he scoffed, then glanced around for a moment before pulling the boy off to the side and towards a collection of crates they could sit upon without being harassed or disturbed. By this time, nearly half of Roxas’ turkey leg had disappeared, and his chin shone with grease for a moment before he whipped it on a grimy sleeve and began to speak once more.    
  
“. . . You can’t tell me even a little bit of what you’re asking about?” he asked quietly, legs kicking against the box behind him and voice betraying that he didn’t expect an answer.    
  
Resisting the urge to rub his temple, Axel only shrugged and took a bite to give himself time to think. “Nothin ya wanna know about, I promise,” he replied noncommittal.    
  
“Yeah, figured. . . “ Roxas muttered. Looking down, he picked at a bit of fat hanging off his meal, shoulders slumping further, before glancing in Axel’s direction. “. . . Any idea how long it’ll take you, then?” he asked. “Maybe we can . . . do something when you’re finished.”    
  
“You kidding?” Axel grinned, dropping his arm once more across Roxas’ shoulder. “Of course we can. Like hell I’d forget my favorite, uh, street rat.”    
  
“Gee, thanks --” the phrase served its goal of pulling a laugh from Roxas throat as he shoved at Axel’s side, though the boy immediately frowned again. “. . . You . . . didn’t answer my question.”    
  
Axel’s own smile flickered for a moment, and he let out a heavy breath before scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, well . . . “ he muttered. “I’m not sure. I’ll, uh . . . let you know, though. I got a meeting later, should hopefully put all my pieces into place and help me figure it out. In the meantime, just hang out. I’ll be around. Ain’t like I stop existing when I’m working.”    
  
It was meant to be a joke, but the manner in which Roxas’ swallowed and avoided his eyes betrayed that he didn’t feel the same. “Okay,” he replied with a nod. “As long as you promise to let me help if you need it.”    
  
“I’ve got it memorized,” Axel agreed immediately, thumping a knuckle against his chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”    
  
Of course, he had no intention of allowing Roxas to become involved in the slightest. 

And, of course, it wasn’t  _ his  _ meeting that Axel was attending, but that of his target. Hopefully, observing one of the prince’s counsel sessions would give a bit of insight into what the hell was going on.    
  
Then, maybe, this fucked up job could finally end and he could get the vacation he needed. Maybe Roxas could tag along and learn how to have fun like a normal kid.    
  
Maybe he’d look into taking a trip to the sea. . . a beach trip sounded just perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out! The end of the semester really kicked my ass. I should be updating more regularly from here on out! 
> 
> If you liked the chapter (or, hell, even if you didn't) please consider letting me know! Thanks so much for reading!


	6. Picking of Battles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patience is tested, and unwelcome visits are made.

Prior to allowing an individual a position on a counsel, Isa believed that they should be required to go through a very special initiation. One by one, each of their eyebrows should be plucked while they sat as still as possible in their chairs, while simultaneously small animals would nibble upon every inch of exposed skin with gnawing, gnashing and razor-sharp teeth.    
  
That was, after all, what every meeting he’d been a part of had felt like.    
  
Despite irritation forming into phantom pinpricks across his skin, the prince managed to stay still and quiet as the meeting progressed. Alert, yet with head slightly bowed, he listened as his father spoke with a rapt attention that only served to feed the rapidly growing distaste within his stomach.    
  
The topic was one that had been discussed at length, and which often arose in these sorts of meetings. Trade, that all-important cornerstone of the flourishing kingdom, and the manners in which it could be expanded.    
  
The king was droning on, reedy voice every now and then breaking into a cocky laugh as he boasted of recent influx in currency as a result of export. Export, of course, that had come from stripping the surrounding farmlands outside of the castle gates of any crop worthy of being sold, barring that which was used by the castle and those who lived nearest.    
  
“Good, yes, very good, very good. . . “ he grinned, eyes creasing near enough to make them invisible beneath layers of wrinkles. “But not, my friends, good enough. No, not enough. The kingdom is growing, coat sleek like the finest of stallions, but we must feed it to keep it healthy. Bigger, brighter, yes, only the best of futures lie ahead!”    
  
It was the king’s typical sort of drivel, and the prince was certain that if he tried hard enough he could predict the other man’s words and utter them before him. His lips, however, remained still and pressed tightly closed as he sat, stoic and still, at his father’s side. At the table with them in the meeting room, lit by warm torchlight and made pretty with elegant tapestry, sat two other court members to whom Isa had no desire whatsoever to place a name. They were from the same fine, expensive cloth as that upon the walls, and of the man at Isa’s side who shared his cursed blood.    
  
“Blessed futures, indeed, your majesty!” one of the nobles, likely a duke of some sort, who had had a position of importance in the trade deals, spoke with a grin of his own. “Pray tell what glorious visions have graced his majesty’s ingenious mind?”    
  
The king himself appeared to preen under the praise, and it was to his credit that Isa remained in the same still position, gloved hands resting casually upon a crossed knee and expression schooled into impassivity, refusing to betray even the smallest twitch. “First and foremost,” the king began, chest puffed out like some sort of bird, “My visions speak of refreshment! Pray, call a servant to fetch us some of the fine tea we’ve acquired.”    
  
The court member that had yet to speak bowed before departing to signal for the order, while simultaneously Isa fought throbbing in his temple. A call for refreshment meant that this would be a  _ long  _ meeting, which he’d rather not have to face.    
  
As always, the prince had little say in the matter, and quietly resolved himself to his fate of listening and biding his time till action.    
  
“Yes, yes . . . “ the king continued on once his order had been carried out, fingers heavy with rings clasped in front of him and rested upon the table. “Bright futures, indeed, and nothing to do but improve.”    
  
_ Improve . . .  _ The single word elicited the first reaction that Isa had allowed himself for the past several moments. Already dreading the answer, his eyes flickered in his father’s direction to rest upon his face. How he wished, more than anything, that he didn’t already know the answer to the question that had yet to be asked. . .    
  
“Improve, my lord?” one of the trivial nobles asked, to be met with a laugh from his highness.    
  
“Of course, of course,” was the king’s response, still accompanied by an amiable smile and showing no sign at all of having noticed his son’s observation of his demeanor. “With the yield we’ve gained from this much of our fields, it stands to reason that increasing export would only result in further growth.”    
  
Ah, yes, there -- with those condemning words, another one of Isa’s metaphorical hairs of patience was yanked from his skin, and he found himself grinding his teeth together imperceptibly. Further  _ output  _ meant less food left for those that grew it. Apparently, that mattered very little when it resulted in an influx of gold and rare delicacies to the castle, itself. 

Argument formed upon his tongue, killed immediately by a cultivated self-control. Nothing would come from arguing with the king, save for the further limiting of Isa’s own power and influence, which would be counterintuitive to the entire nature of his existence. He would have to proceed carefully. . .    
  
Fortunately, there was little opportunity for the next few moments to speak, as each of the other nobles began babbling over one another and praising the king for his genius. Once the applause and noxious celebration had died down, Isa had succeeded in laying the last piece of the argument in his mind, and parted his lips to speak.    
  
“My lord --”    
  
Before he could continue, the door to the room was tossed open as a servant arrived with the requested tea. The words that the prince had been about to speak aloud were entirely ignored in favor of each of his companions turning towards the door and demanding to be served.    
  
Now further exasperated, Isa forced a slow breath and tried to ignore the pounding in his temple. This was far from the most intolerable meeting he’d been a part of, and it wouldn’t be the last. He could not afford to break composure, now, over something so superficial. Composure retained, the prince set his shoulders and leaned backwards from the table to make room for the servant delivering their refreshment, then turned --    
  
And rather suddenly found that his headache had grown worse.    
  
Rather than the typical short, inky-black hair of the maiden who typically delivered meals, he was faced with a lanky form and a shock of red. Completely unabashed, with sparkling eyes and an impish smile, the “servant” carried the tray to the table, head bowed briefly in a manner which somehow managed to be mocking.    
  
Eyes widened briefly as his carefully formulated thoughts crumbled in his mind like wet sand, Isa simply stared at the assassin for a moment before barely managing to contain a harsh glare. As it was, his jaw tightened considerably along with the hardening of his gaze, and he fixed the other with a look that demanded with every ounce of his being  _ What the hell are you doing here?  _   
  
His only answer was a wink, accompanied by a rather pointed sway of the hips as the red-haired man set the tray upon the table and began to dole out the cups for their tea.    
  
Of course, there was no way in hell that the assassin was here only to serve. What was the true purpose of this performance? To watch Isa more closely? To torment him? Something further, and more sinister?    
  
As Isa watched Axel pour the tea for the noble at his side, he resolved himself to continuing the meeting without drink.    
  
It appeared that the prince had been the only one to take significant note of the servant’s rather unexpected appearance, and the others present at the table only proceeded to praise the quality of the tea for a moment before one of them, more polite than was usually allotted but also rather foolish, bowed his head in Isa’s direction and spoke.    
  
“You were saying, your highness?” he asked, clearly not having missed Isa’s words. It was a sentiment that did not all appear to have been shared by the king, who grimaced briefly between turning in Isa’s direction.    
  
“I, ah. . . “ Isa began, floundering as he attempted to turn his thoughts away from the fox-like eyes turned upon him and instead back to the words he’d so carefully arranged before this rather unwelcome interruption.  _ Damn it.  _ It wasn’t often at all that words failed him, and Isa was unable to refrain from cursing both himself and the source of his distress to the deepest pit of hell.    
  
“What is it, boy? Cat got your tongue?” the king asked with a chuckle, looking far too pleased with himself. The mocking  _ boy  _ had Isa’s hand clenching at his robes beneath the table as he fought, once again, for his composure.    
  
It was an effort set off, once more, by the assassin, who now stood at the king’s side to pour his tea. Rather than taking advantage of his proximity to murder the monarch, or any number of actually helpful things, he raised an eyebrow in Isa’s direction and smirked, clearly enjoying himself just as much as the king and relishing in Isa’s momentary humiliation.    
  
It was not a pleasure that Isa would allow to continue.    
  
“Not at all, your majesty,” he spoke, tone calm and composed in a manner that differed greatly from his tense neck muscles and desire to pound the assassin’s face into the table. “I was only pondering your proposition and considering how we might best go about increasing our gain.”    
  
Unwilling to give the snake in their midst the time of day, Isa kept his eyes only upon the king. Such did not, however, keep him from missing the manner in which the amused gaze burning into his skin hardened, suddenly a good deal more attentive and dangerous.    
  
What Isa had planned to say would not sound pretty to the assassin, but Isa had never been afforded the luxury of seeming pleasant. Only that which was effective mattered.    
  
“I’d say it’s pretty straightforward,” the king scoffed with a shake of the head. “Or have you failed to learn basic arithmetic? We’ve allotted half the fields to trade, and half to ourselves. With such finery coming in, we don’t need half of the same old crop, so why not increase our output to three quarters?”    
  
He smiled, looking rather proud, and was met with the celebration of each of his companions, save two. The disdain of his son was hidden from the king, along with the apparent reality that increase in crops traded away would only affect those whose very lives depended upon growing and eating them.    
  
His Majesty was also painfully, dangerously, unaware of the assassin at his side. It was a luxury that the prince didn’t share, and he spared the redhead a hard glance while wondering if he’d take action that very minute. Four to one, with guards outside, were horrible odds, but the devil didn’t exactly seem clever. . .    
  
Yet, he moved on, simply to fill the next cup.    
  
“I must confess that my own thoughts were rather different,” Isa retorted to the king in cool monotone, for all his irritation having expected the answer he’d received. “If Your Majesty would forgive me the suggestion. Rather than increase how much of our yield is given away, it seems more logical to me to increase the total amount that is produced. With a bit of proper motivation to the farmers and the full use of land that is otherwise abandoned, we can produce the same amount of crop that we’d have if giving two thirds of our previous share away, but have an equally higher amount to keep for ourselves.”    
  
It was not the prettiest, nor kindest, of solutions. The “abandoned” land which Isa spoke of was untilled and as of yet unbarren. It would take a good deal of work, and work not on the behalf of anyone in the room, to convince to bear fertile fruit. They would toil for long hours, and little benefit . . .    
  
But they would be able to eat.    
  
A sacrifice, and a small victory, and one which Isa wasn’t certain was worth it. For the time being, however, all that he could do was damage control and appealing to greed.    
  
An appeal which worked, if based upon the king’s raised chin and slight nod. “See to it that it happens, then,” he nodded. “It is a shame, indeed, to waste the land, when it could be turned to gold.”    
  
It was not a victory deserving of celebration, but in the moment it was all that Isa had. Scarcely had he allowed himself to relax, however, before he felt breath upon his ear and every muscle in his body tensed with the memory of metal against skin.    
  
_ ”Real clever, your highness,”  _ came the slick and lilting tone of the assassin. Whether the words were uttered in praise or condemnation, Isa was of yet uncertain, and unable to ascertain so through a rush of pure irritation. How  _ dare  _ the bastard stand so close, whispering such bastardous words beneath his breath. What the prince wouldn’t give to be allowed to break composure and fist a hand in that hellish mane, using it to force the bastard’s head back to bear the full expanse of that pale neck and --    
  
And --    
  
The thought was not allowed to finish before, quick as he’d come, the red-haired man had departed, and the topic of discussion changed to something trivial. For the first time in several days, mercy showed its face to the prince, and the rest of the meeting passed without incident.    
  
Following its conclusion, Isa was unable to shake the feeling of those eyes upon him, and the thought of giving in to whatever thought had plagued him in those last few moments. While his presence had been intolerable, the assassin’s absence was even more concerning, and Isa found that as more time passed without hide nor hair of the man, the more on edge he became.    
  
Axel had stated that he was going to  _ watch  _ him, to judge if Isa was truly worthy of his death sentence. He’d certainly had to have gained a good deal of information during his stint as a tea bringer. . . but what would it have revealed?    
  
Would Isa be deemed a greedy monarch, alongside his father? 

Would Ienzo be condemned the same?  As days passed following the decision and plans turned to action in the form of toiling farmers, the prince grew more paranoid and on edge. Only few would notice, infallible as his countenance remained, but the sword that remained upon his belt and his insistence upon knowing where his brother was at any given time were proof of his preparation for battle.    
  
Expecting as he was for a dagger in his back or at his throat, Isa refused to go down without a fight. A cur such as the one who kept him under watch would not be allowed to kill him so easily.    
  
But the challenge never came.    
  
Days turned to weeks, activity and paranoid ritual becoming monotonous, and more than one meeting akin to that which had caused the distress occurred in a similar fashion. At none of which was the unwelcome visitor present.    
  
Yet, despite himself, the prince could have sworn that he felt the stare of poisonous eyes upon his back, or caught a flash of red from the corner of his eyes. Watching, toying, all while Isa plotted, himself, for the inevitable fallout.    
  
Either he would catch the assassin off guard and claim his victory -- or the other would do the same.    
  
Fate was not fond of stalemates, however, nor of being predictable, and it was to neither man to whom victory was delivered. The end of their impasse would come suddenly, and from the most unlikely of sources, in a blaze of blood and metal.    
  
And it would begin, ever so innocuously, with a loaf of bread. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this chapter!! Admittedly, it gave me a bit of trouble. I hope you enjoyed it! We're getting to a point, now, where the pace will begin to pick up, so I hope everyone who's reading is ready for a bit of drama. 
> 
> By the way, please check out this fanart, made by ADHDJester on tumblr, of Axel in his performing garb! https://exquisite-lord-kyroo.tumblr.com/post/636012414958256128


	7. Play of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone makes a mistake, placing something precious in the line of danger.

If Axel had learned anything over the years, it was the world could fall to hell in a matter of seconds.    
  
A single missed step, a single straying string of fate -- the upturned corner of a carpet, and a voice cutting through what should have been silence. Advantage could be lost, the world turned on its end and the table turned, carpet torn out from underneath feet that had just been beginning to gain their footing.    
  
It was a tenant that he’d lived by, and abused to his greatest extent. The notion that an underdog could find his way to the high ground with a few clever steps and a bit of luck meant everything. The instability of power was exploitable, and had served him well on more than one dangerous occasion.    
  
Now, it had him tearing through the halls like a madman, desperate to keep the balance from shifting outside of his favor in the worst possible way.    
  
_ “”Shit - damn it, shit,”*  _ the worlds spilled from his throat as he panted, tearing through thankfully empty servants’ passageways in a desperate attempt to reach the courtyard so far below and outside.    
  
Damn it -- he never should have left him alone. Now, it was only a matter of time before the worst happened, reaching the point where Axel was powerless and none of his tricks would be able to help.    
  
He’d warned the kid that he was bad news, but he hadn’t listened, and had followed anyway. Axel had let him . . . and now Roxas was going to pay the price.    
  
Axel must have stayed away too long, and Roxas had gotten bored. That was the only explanation, and Axel knew all too well that it wasn’t far fetched in the slightest. The whispers of guards and servants had conveyed a story to the assassin’s listening ears he had hoped --  _ prayed --  _ wasn’t true, or at the very least wasn’t related to him.    
  
Unfortunately, he knew better than to keep that hope alive by the time that the story had finished. A boy, dirty and clearly off the streets, had been caught hanging around one of the castle’s maids with an assortment of food that had clearly been pilfered from the kitchen. If there was any doubt in Axel’s mind at that point, it was subsequently quenched by the maid herself, who had run to him with wide, teary blue eyes and frantic whispers, saying the boy had sent her to find someone with hair like a flame and tell him what happened.    
  
There was no way to doubt, after that. Only to panic, and to try to make his way down to the courtyard as soon as possible -- after all, thieves and infiltrators were dealt with notoriously harshly.    
  
Whispers revealed that the king had already called for the thief’s execution.    
  
Obviously, Axel was  _ not  _ going to let that happen. Even if he had to fight off the entire guard, abandon his mission, go on the run and -- hell, he could think of a plan later. All that mattered now was protecting the boy who had made the unfortunate mistake of trusting him.    
  
Long legs closed the distance to the other side of the castle quickly, and in no time at all he was ducking out of one corridor and into another towards the most accessible path to the courtyard where Roxas was being held and tried. So close -- so close he could almost see it, he just had to hope that he was in  _ time  _ to --    
  
Collide with a wall and stagger backwards, blinking in disorientation while panting to catch his breath, one hand instinctively finding its way to the weapon hidden under a sleeve. It really wasn’t fair of the wall to come out of nowhere and interrupt him like this . . .    
  
Especially since said wall was looking at him with cold, slate-blue eyes.    
  
_ “Motherfucker,”  _ he muttered with a grimace. Of  _ course  _ the bastard prince would show himself now, when everything else was already going wrong. Huffing out a breath, Axel dropped his hand from his knife and moved to push past the royal’s body. “I do  _ not  _ have time for you right now, sorry,  _ highness.”  _   
  
Unfortunately, he was kept from proceeding forward by a firm grip on his upper bicep, which the prince used to drag him backwards despite his cursed protest. “ _ Let me g--”  _ _   
_ _   
_ “You’re usually more careful than this.” the words were stated bluntly, and only the slightest narrowing of searching eyes as change in expression. The prince did not move, did not falter, nor relax his grip upon the assassin’s wiry arm. “What is happening?”    
  
_ Stubborn, high and mighty bastard --  _ “I just  _ said,  _ I don’t have time to deal with you,” Axel spat back. Jerking his arm, he attempted to throw the prince off, and let out a sound more akin to a snarl than anything else when he failed. “I’ve got way more important things to get to and I swear if you don’t let me go --”    
  
“More important things?” Isa’s eyes narrowed further, and as if were no trouble at all he proceeded to pull Axel backwards by his arm until he was standing in front of him once more. “And here I thought you spent every moment stalking me.”    
  
“Yeah, well --” Axel huffed, bristling but still ultimately powerless in the hold. His eyes were wild and panicked, increasingly more so by the moment, and if Isa didn’t get his ass out of the way, soon . . . “Bigger fish and all that, and if you got a problem I’ll cut you open right here --”    
  
Fumbling hands of his free arm -- unfortunately the non-dominant one -- found their way to his dagger, which was thrown clumsily in a wide swing towards the prince’s neck. It was a last ditch effort, wild and without the assassin’s typical tact, and the offending wrist was quickly caught and trapped within Isa’s grip as easily as Axel’s other arm had been.”Messy,” the prince stated with a frown, and Axel let out a cry as his wrist was bent backwards and his blade clattered to the ground. “You would attack me, after all of your effort to be careful, in the open?”    
  
_ Shit -- shit, shit shit shit --  _ Axel’s internal monologue was restless and repetitive, and he snarled once more while thrashing in Isa’s grip, only for the sound to turn more into a whine. “So call the guard, cut my damned head off, I don’t fuckin care just --” frenzied green eyes flickered towards a window in the wall of the hallway past Isa’s shoulder. If he concentrated, he thought he could see the silhouettes of figures down below, several of which held pointed weapons.    
  
Another strangled sound tore from his throat, and for a moment his true panic shone before twisting once more into a mask of scorn. “If you don’t let me go right now he’s going to die. I know you don’t fucking care but I do and --”    
  
“Shut up.” The prince’s face of still marble finally moved, forming a faint and confused frown. “Who’s dying?”    
  
“Like you don’t fucking  _ know --”  _ exasperated, Axel thrashed again in arms that now held both of his wrists. Rebelling against his trapped body, his heart pounded loud and hard enough that it seemed to be attempting to escape his chest as the taste of bile rose in his mouth. The panic was so much that it was choking him, clawing at his throat and forcing its way from his mouth in the form of misplaced, frenzied laughter.    
  
He laughed -- Axel laughed, even as hopeless, shameful tears began to prick at the corners of his eyes. “You had to have heard, damn it, don’t play dumb --” he forced out in a shaking tone, jerking once more against the hands holding him in place. “He’s just a fucking kid, you’ve got plenty of food, it isn’t goddamned  _ right -- hey! --”  _ _   
_ _   
_ Before he’d even finished speaking, Isa had glanced briefly over his shoulder before yanking Lea off down the hall a ways. All the while, the assassin spit, long legs kicking frantically and sloppily in the prince’s direction and unable to accomplish much of anything except for a greater accumulation of wetness in his eyes. Isa’s blurred in front of him, and though Axel cursed him to the seventh layer of hell he could barely even see as he was drug through a doorway and tossed into a room, closed in with a heavy thud.    
  
“What the fuck --” The momentum of his struggling had caused Axel and stumble and fall to the ground upon their entry, and for a moment he simply looked up, too confused and infuriated to find his way to his feet.    
  
“You’re no help to this friend of yours in this current state, regardless,” the prince answered calmly. He’d moved over to the window of the room they were in, which appeared to be some sort of storage chamber, and had begun pulling down the tassel of one of the curtains. Every now and then, his eyes flickered out the window into the distance, and Axel both shuddered at the thought and longed to know what exactly those eyes were seeing. “You’re irrational and volatile. You will expose yourself and get the both of you killed, which I highly doubt is what you desire.”    
  
“ _ Fuck  _ you,” was Axel’s only snarled response, coupled with the slamming of a fist against the hard ground. Yet, despite his words, his breath came faster, heart sinking in his chest as some evil part of him whispered that Isa was correct. What could he do but race into the courtyard to take his last stand at Roxas’ side against the word of the king?    
  
The despair, though brief in the face of rage and determination, gave the prince an opening, and before Axel knew it he’d once again been grabbed. Despite the curses that spilled from his lips, as well as reinvigorated thrashing, he was forced backwards.    
  
_ “You bastard --!”  _ he cried, tears falling from his eyes, as he felt the cord begin to secure around his wrists.  _ “I’ll kill you -- I’ll fucking kill you, I swear to god I’ll spill your blood, you heartless --”  _ _   
_ _   
_ Briefly, he managed to pull a hand free and swung it towards the prince’s head, but it was caught yet again as the royal grimaced and forced it into the air next to Axel’s head. Before the assassin knew it, the binding rope had wrapped around both wrists and was then secured to the post behind him. They held tight, resisting his every thrash, and all too quickly even his kicking legs were pinned to the ground by the prince’s own as he settled between them and forced them to the ground.    
  
“Unless you want to join your friend in the courtyard, I’d suggest you be  _ quiet,”  _ the prince growled from between gritted teeth. Though is face was cold as ever, his eyes burned as he forcibly grabbed the assassin’s chin and turned his head, forcing him to hold the prince’s eyes. “You’re going to get the both of you killed, mangy curr. Stay here like a good little pet, and I will handle matters.”    
  
“Die,” was Axel’s only answer, and he spat in the prince’s direction before jerking his head free and looking stubbornly off to the side. Wild red hair covered his face and, thankfully, the stream of tears which fell unbidden from his eyes. Whatever the bastard prince meant by “handling” things, it couldn’t be good, especially with Axel now lashed helplessly to the wall like a dog.    
  
A brief, tense sigh was all that Isa gave in response before moving off the assassin’s now limp body. Axel didn’t look up, blurry, swimming gaze instead fixed upon the ground. Despite himself, he started to shake, even while cursing himself for his weakness. Still, clinging to what remained of stubbornness, he refused to look up as the prince’s footsteps faded, the door creaked open and shut once more, and he was left once more in darkness with his hands bound above his head.    
  
Everyone’s luck ran out eventually, it seemed. Axel could have accepted that; his own death, at the hands of these bloodthirsty royals.    
  
But not his.    
  
_ Please, not his.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update! It's been hard to find time and energy to write. Rest assured to anyone reading that I do intend to continue the story, and have it all planned out! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked the chapter! Sorry for having it be a bit of a cliffhanger. Will Roxas be ok? 
> 
> I'll update as soon as I can. Please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters should update approximately weekly! Please consider leaving kudos/comment if you enjoyed -- I'm really looking forward to writing this story, and have loved these boys for a long time.


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